All That Jazz
by TomiSama04
Summary: Chicago!AU. It's May 2, 1924, and all Luke Milton wanted was to be a vaudeville performer. After a little misunderstanding, he finds himself in prison with the infamous Sam Winchester, his favorite man in the business. [Lucifer as Roxie Hart and Sam as Velma Kelly]


Samifer Week #4: Saturday, October 13, 2012

**All That Jazz**

**Pairing: **Samifer (SamLucifer) [Hints of MichaelxLucifer and Wincest]  
**Rating:** NC17  
**Word Count: **18,688

**Summary:** Chicago!AU. It's May 2, 1924, and all Luke Milton wanted was to be a vaudeville performer. After a little misunderstanding, he finds himself in prison with the infamous Sam Winchester, his favorite man in the business. (Lucifer as Roxie Hart and Sam as Velma Kelly)

* * *

It was May 2, 1924 when Sam Winchester showed up late to the club. The jazz was pouring into the street, but the younger Winchester ignored the fun to lean through the window and offer the cabbie some money.

"Keep the change," he said, turning on his heel, trying to dance around some puddles of melted snow so he wouldn't get his shoes wet. He slipped into the back room, his suitcase hitting his leg in a way that made it seem heavier than it was. He started to climb up the stairs to his dressing room when his boss set his jaw with a frown.

"Hey, Sammy, where you been?" Upon seeing Sam was alone, he amended the question. "Where's Dean?"

"He's not himself tonight," Sam answered, stomping up the stairs.

"But they _paid_ to see a brother act!"

"Don't sweat it. I can do it alone," Sam yelled back down the stairs, slamming the door to the dressing room behind him. He threw his suitcase on a chair and opened it. He dug around inside for a moment, before he pulled out a bloody gun. Looking around, he decided to dump it in the bottom of his dresser. He hid it under some silky shirts – they were Dean's anyway – and Sam walked to the sink, washing blood off his hands.

"Shit."

Sam changed quickly, but struggled with his bowtie. He could hear the overture of his and Dean's song playing. Sam growled at his reflection in the mirror, finally getting his tie, and raced down the stairs. Back stage, the other vaudeville performers were giving him a hard time – the owners of the club were pissed Dean wasn't there – but he just ran out to his platform, ignoring them all.

"Ladies and gentleman, the Onyx Club is proud to present Chicago's hottest dancing duo, two jazz sheiks moving as one: the Winchester brothers."

Sam was raised to the stage, and there was a vague murmur from the crowd at the lack of older Winchester. Sam ignored it – he ignored them all – and when they played his cue, he lifted up his head and started singing.

* * *

Luke Milton rested his head against a beam, looking up at the performance. In his opinion, Sam had always been the better Winchester anyway. He didn't care if the boy was without his older brother; in fact, he shined without him. Dean would rub his hands over the ladies dancing on stage with him, he'd wink at the crowd and play it up, but Sam could produce this intimate sexual tension. It was like the crowd wasn't there at all – the people watching were just voyeurs to an orgy on stage – and Sam would just wrap an arm around a girl or a boy like he didn't care people might talk about it.

The younger Winchester had a cigarette that he would puff occasionally, sometimes when a woman was tracing her hands down the front of his suit or sometimes when a man reached around from behind, looking ridiculously small behind Sam's massive frame.

And Luke couldn't look away.

Especially not when the man turned Sam so he was facing sideways, and the younger Winchester reached behind him, putting his cigarette between the man's lips before moving on to nearly pin a woman to a table. Luke's hands moved closer to his mouth, and he imagined what he'd look like up there, singing as Sam Winchester. Or maybe even with Sam Winchester. Sam's hands on him like that, pressing him up against a table.

"Let's go, baby." Michael called from behind him, knocking him out of the fantasy. Usually Michael was more careful, but once he got enough gin in him, he tended to be a talker. Luke turned away from Sam's stage and frowned.

"But I didn't even meet your friend," Luke knew he sounded like he was pouting, but Michael responded well to submission. Most guys who would hang out with Luke liked their men as submissive as a typical broad, and Luke was a better actor than most gave him credit for. "That manager guy."

Michael put on his hat, grinning up at the smaller man. "Don't worry about it, Luke. It's all taken care of."

And with that, Luke let Michael tug him from the club. They were quick to separate once they reached the outdoors though. Sam could grope a man on stage and call it art, but if Luke tried that in downtown Chicago, he'd end up beaten in an alleyway. He had before, back when he was a teenager. Back before he started faking it.

But it didn't last long. Luke lived across the street from the Onyx Club, and as soon as they hit the foyer of the apartment building, the blond man grabbed the other man's tie, pulling him in. They kissed against the stairs, Michael pushing, and Luke letting him.

He imagined Sam Winchester laying back against a table, a man pressing him down, a woman leaning over to kiss him through the song.

Luke took off up the stairs, laughing, and Michael followed with a predatory growl. The older man caught up to Luke when he was at the apartment before his. Michael grabbed a hip and turned him, Luke's back slamming against his neighbor's door. The dark haired man grabbed Luke's wrists, pinning them up and over his head, leaning in for a kiss when the door suddenly opened.

Luke laughed, probably too drunk for this, but he flashed a dazzling smile at his elderly neighbor and winked, "Well hi. This is Michael. He's… um… he's my brother." She glared, hard and disapproving, but shut her door to the sin and kept quiet.

Michael just laughed and tugged Luke away. The blond man fumbled with his keys before he finally got the lock open. He pulled Michael in by his tie and shut the door behind him. It was a rush from there, getting them both undressed. Michael tossed Luke on the bed, and each man focused on removing his own clothes. The dark haired man was entirely naked, but Luke only managed to get his bottom half undressed before Michael pounced.

The fact that the satin shirt was in the way only made the friction better. And Michael was good – he was a generous lover, even if he never submitted – and Luke had definitely had worse. But he was sleeping with Michael out of necessity. Luke Milton needed two things: he needed to have actual sexual satisfaction (which he couldn't get with the dumb little flapper he married – but it was fine because she was sleeping around on him, too) and he needed to perform on vaudeville.

Michael could give him both of those things.

"Say it again, Mickey," Luke groaned, gripping the bed frame so he could rock back against his lover.

"You're a star, baby," he grunted back. "My own little shooting star."

* * *

As the number winded down, Sam Winchester didn't see the detective arrive. The lights were too bright, shining in his face. He opened his arms and belted out the last note.

* * *

It started out as a typical night. A month had passed since Michael took Luke down to the Onyx to talk to his friend, but despite their ongoing affair – and the headlining act remaining unfilled after Sam Winchester's arrest – Luke hadn't actually met the guy. He was getting sick of waiting – sick of asking – and Michael was angry. Luke wasn't quite sure why, but as Michael rolled off him, searching the floor for his clothes, Luke sat up with a frown. He pulled them on and walked to the bathroom.

"Hey, where's the fire, huh? Lilith won't be home 'til midnight," when Michael didn't answer, Luke frowned. He stood, his shirt barely covering himself as he walked to the phonograph and started winding it up. "I don't want to keep nagging you about it, but don't you think it's time I met your friend down at the Onyx? It's been a month, and I know because that was the night Sam Winchester plugged his wife and his brother. You know, they say he caught them together."

Luke pulled on some underwear and wrapped a bathrobe over his shoulders. The toilet flushed in the bathroom, and Luke sighed. This was getting old. He wasn't getting what he wanted anymore. Most men just weren't like him, it seemed. They wanted to fuck another man a few times, but they always grew bored. They always wanted to go on to something different – back to a woman – someone they could take for a drink without worrying about what could happen if someone found out.

"It's getting late," Michael said, and he dressed himself.

But worse than that, Michael wasn't getting him on the stage. And that was the big thing. Luke needed to be on stage. He needed to be somebody. Damn the consequences. And he'd been taking it from Michael for long enough without a reward. Something started growing, cold and angry, in Luke's chest.

He folded his arms in front of him, frowning at Michael, "You did tell your friend about me."

Michael shoved him. It caught the smaller man off guard, and Luke hit the dresser. He caught himself on the ledge, trying to keep himself upright. He had submitted enough. And despite what others may think considering his preferences, he was still a man.

Michael scowled at him, maybe because he didn't fall down in the corner and cry like the man's wife would have. "There ain't no friend down at the club, Luke. I just said that shit so you'd sleep with me, okay? I'd have said anything to get a piece of that."

And that's all it took. It didn't take Michael shoving him again or hitting him; it wasn't even because he was leaving. It wasn't really that Luke was pissed that he had been lied to either. Something just snapped. Luke wanted to be on stage, and Michael couldn't help him. He was expendable.

Luke reached for the pistol in the top dresser drawer.

"You son of a bitch," and Luke shot Michael in the chest three times.

In that moment, Luke caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked calm, totally cool and collected. He let a breath exhale from deep in his chest and looked back at the door. Lilith was standing over the body, looking up at him in fear.

* * *

Luke sat at the foot of his bed in tears and if anyone ever told him he wasn't good enough to be on stage, they should see him now. The police were taking pictures of Michael's body – shot and bleeding on the floor near the bedroom door – and Lilith's body – strangled, naked, and laid out in bed. He was smack dab between the two corpses, and he thought that it was cruel of the police to make him sit here next to his dead wife.

If, you know, he actually cared she was dead.

The story was simple. He walked in after going into the club. He saw the man in bed with his wife, and when he said something, the man came at him. So he took the gun from the dresser and shot him. And it was a damn good story too.

Except the neighbor came forward, telling the police about that night a month ago when she saw the two of them in a _situation_ together. And that was that. It didn't matter that other neighbors told the police about Lilith's affairs – the other men she would bring home – because he wasn't really getting arrested because of the murders. All it took in this city was an implication at being with another man.

When Luke was getting dragged out of the apartment and thrown into the back of the police van, people were taking pictures of him.

"Smile pretty," they were yelling, mocking.

"You know, just with the killing of the man, this'll be a hangin' case. Throw in the fact you murdered your wife to cover up your dandy lifestyle, and I wouldn't be surprised if you even make it to trial," the police officer grinned, offering a wink. Men were big in prison. There weren't women in the same blocks as men in prison. Luke licked his lips, trying to calm his heartbeat. He'd been there, he'd done that, and he thought he'd grown out of being the cute little boy that bigger men liked to take advantage of. "Have fun in there, kid."

All Luke could do was yell out the window, "What do you mean _hangin'._"

* * *

When they got to the Cook County Jail, Luke was processed and they gave him his new prison clothes. He was on Murderer's Row – six other men were in his section, all awaiting trial for murdering their wives – and the man in charge of his block was named Zachariah.

And the words he said didn't quite fit what he meant. He sounded like a hardass – "Don't come complaining to me because I don't give a shit; now move it out." – but he stopped Luke before he walked into the wing. Zachariah was balding, short, but egotistical. He grinned at Luke in a way that made him shiver, like maybe the there was some truth to how people would treat someone like him in prison.

"So you must be the pretty little angel that defied his father and fell from grace?" Zachariah offered a smile that looked more like a sneer.

"Sir?" Luke asked.

"Oh, call me Daddy, everybody does," Zachariah said in what had to be one of the creepiest lines Luke had ever heard. And that was saying something considering how he used to make money in alleyways when he first came to the Windy City. "And I mean they're calling you 'Lucifer.' The papers, I mean. They say a nice church going boy like you, a man with a wife and all, killing his gay lover and for what? A fit of rage? Some say you're crazy, but all say you're sinful and prideful. Lucifer's a nice fit then, huh?"

Lucifer. Yes. That was good. He liked that.

And it was true. Luke and Lilith went to church every Sunday, because the woman believed her adultery was a sin and Luke thought the priest was a looker. He liked confessing his lesser sins to the man. He liked feeling the change in the man's breathing when he wondered aloud about Lilith's affairs. How he put words to her crimes and how the Godly man ate them up.

He never told his own sins, of course. Because they were his. And it was true. He was prideful and sinful, and he took to his moniker with open arms.

And Lucifer kept his mouth shut as they walked down the east wing.

"Hey, daddy, c'mere!" Sam Winchester was pressed up against the bars of his cell, shaking a magazine at the balding man. His hair was down – it was always pulled to the base of his neck when he was performing – and it fell like a curtain to his shoulders. He was tall, too. He towered over Lucifer and Zachariah.

"Sam Winchester," Lucifer breathed, but the superstar ignored him. Instead, Sam busied himself with flipping through the magazine. "You know, I was there the night that you got arrested."

"Yeah?" Sam shot Lucifer a look. It was snippy at first, like Sam was used to hearing that and he didn't care if one more person was falling over themselves to say it again. He tilted his head to the side, slightly, before offering a small smile. "You and half of Chicago."

With another half-smirk, Sam turned his attention back to Zachariah. "Look at this, daddy. It's an article denouncing me in Redbook Magazine. 'Never in history do we recall a more fiendish double homicide.'"

"Honey, you couldn't buy that kind of publicity," Zachariah grinned.

"Couldn't buy it?" Sam lifted up his shirt, grabbing a few dollar bills that were sticking out of his pants at his hip. Lucifer couldn't help but notice the lines of strong muscles on Sam's stomach. He wanted that. He wanted Sam. But Sam leaned forward against the bar again, holding the money between his pointer and middle finger. "Then I guess I can keep this."

Zachariah grabbed the money and slipped into his pocket. "Nice try." The patron started walking away, and Lucifer followed him up the stairs. As they walked by cells, Zachariah grabbed more money from the men in his charge.

When they reached Lucifer's cell, he walked in and Zachariah shut the door behind him. It was freezing, but then again, he was always freezing. Zachariah just leaned forward, counting the money he collected from his men. "So, in case you don't see the connection here… if you're good to daddy, daddy's good to you."

Zachariah held out a notebook, one of the girly ones that had a lock on it, and he winked. "State mandates I give you all one of these. It's supposed to help your rehabilitation if you can focus your rage into words instead of violence." Lucifer took it, frowning at the blue… _diary_.

When Zachariah walked away, he yelled, "Lights out, gents," and suddenly, Lucifer was left standing in his cell in the dark. He heard the bars lock and walked over to sit on the bed. For a second, he thought about how upset he should be – how frightened – but mostly, he was just angry.

He laid down, exhausted. Before he fell asleep, he wondered which of his two victims he should miss more. But honestly, he didn't really miss either of them.

* * *

The first few weeks were hard in prison. Lucifer would assume it would be hard for anyone, but he had an extra something added to plate with the rumors of why he killed his wife and the guy. Bigger men from other blocks would make passes on him from time to time, but it wasn't anything he hadn't been through before or been able to handle. In fact, now he had a double homicide under his belt and a nickname like _Lucifer_, people tended to stop short of an actual rape attempt. And Lucifer always stopped short of physical violence – he figured getting in trouble on the inside would hurt his defense if he ever got decent council – so he would proclaim that he loved his wife and the bastard got what was coming to him.

And both of those things were true, but maybe not the whole truth.

The other six men on Murderer's Row didn't exactly take him in with open arms, but none of them said anything about the rumors. Mostly, they spent the first week ignoring the new man on the block who was coming to terms that one trial would decide whether he lived or died. Most people needed time to adjust to that.

Slowly, though, the other men on the row started letting him into their circle. And over the next few weeks, Lucifer learned quite a bit about the other men on Murderer's Row and the wives they killed to get themselves there.

Gabriel would trade money and favors for candy, but he had an irrational hatred of gum. In fact, he'd been in seclusion a handful of times for attacking men twice his size for popping their gum. He was an easy man to get along with. He could spin a great story, but never seemed to tell his own. Or at least, he never seemed to tell the truth.

And if Lucifer had slipped one of the prisoners who was making a pass at him some gum right before Gabriel showed up; well, who would need to know? They were out in the yard and the guards usually kept a good eye on things, but when Gabriel tackled the prisoner and started punching him in the face, Lucifer couldn't help but notice the way the guards looked away. He wondered if they were letting the smaller man burn off some steam before they had to drag a fighting man all the way to solitary or if they knew the man he was beating was a lowlife anyway.

"Kali liked to chew gum," Gabriel started. He was sitting so high on the man's chest, his arms were pinned down by his knees. "No, not chew… pop!" He threw a punch, and Lucifer was kind of fascinated to watch the nose break and the blood squirt out. "So I came home this one day and I'm really irritated, and I'm looking for a little bit of _sympathy_ and there's Kali, lying on the couch, drinking some gin and chewing. No, not chewing… _popping_!" Another fist, and when Gabriel pulled back, some blood followed. Castoff and spray got the black and white uniform bloody, and Lucifer stepped back. He didn't need anything of that man on him."So I said to her, 'if you pop that gum one more time…' and she did. So I took the shotgun off the wall and I fired two warning shots into her head."

The guards showed up then and lifted Gabriel like he weighed nothing. He had worn himself out enough to not fight the guards as they dragged him to solitary. Other guards were walking leisurely toward them to take the prisoner with a broken nose to the medical wing. Before they got there, Lucifer leaned over him and raised his eyebrows. The prisoner coughed, blood seeping into his throat, and Lucifer warned him, "Don't you ever talk to me again."

He was released from the ward the next day, and he never even looked at Lucifer again.

The man with the cell next to Gabriel was Balthazar. The British man was kind of a gambler, and he liked to run a card game for cigarettes and dollar bills in the laundry room when they were supposed to be working. Lucifer hadn't even been asked to play before, but after word got around that someone saw him slipping some gum to that guy Gabriel beat up, Balthazar clasped him on the back and asked him to take a seat.

Balthazar was winning, which Lucifer suspected was a nice way of putting _cheating_, and the other men he was playing with were growing frustrated. Lucifer didn't really have any money – his sister on the outside was taking care of his affairs the best she could, but they had a hard time finding a lawyer in their price range – but he did have some cigarettes.

Bit by bit, the men started sharing their stories. One was in for robbery, the other for assault. When Balthazar told his story, he told it in a way that made him seem like he was embarrassed. It took Lucifer losing a few different rounds to get the whole story, but after an hour, he could piece it together.

"I met Bela Talbot from Great Britain about two years ago. And she told me she was rich, and we hit it off right away. So we started living together. She'd go to work; she'd come home. I'd fix her a drink; we'd have dinner," Lucifer threw his hand, and Balthazar continued on. "And then I found out – rich she told me? Rich my ass – not only was she dirt poor; oh no, she'd been stealing from me. One of those kleptos, you know? So that night when she came home from work, I fixed her a drink as usual."

Balthazar drew the cigarettes and dollar bills toward him, smiling up at Lucifer and adding in a wink, "You know, some girls just can't hold their arsenic."

And Lucifer might not be too good at poker, but he used to have to steal a lot when he came to the city and couldn't get a real job and hadn't been desperate enough to start tricking yet. If he pocketed the cigarettes he lost by skimming the pot, then who would ever really know?

Some of the men felt bad about killing their wives. Sometimes, they had it coming, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable to have to put them down. But Bobby Singer was the only one on the block who talked fondly of his wife, Karen. Everyone else had been tainted by the memory of what they'd done – what the women had done to deserve it – but Bobby liked to tell stories about his angel.

Lucifer was interested one night when he saw Sam Winchester walking out of Bobby's cell in the afternoon sometime after mail call. Lucifer looked in and saw Bobby reading a letter, after a minute, Bobby looked up and sighed. He was a gruff old man, not the sharing and caring type, but he waved the letter in front of him and said, "It's from the sheriff."

"Is he reopening your case or something?" Lucifer asked, leaning his back against the open cell.

Bobby shook his head, "No. Sheriff's a woman, if you can believe it. She's the reason I'm in here in the first place though. The woman busted me a couple'a times for drunk and disorderly, and my Karen got mad."

"Tell me about it."

"Now I'm standing in the kitchen, carving up a chicken for dinner, and minding my own business. In storms my wife Karen in a jealous rage. 'You been screwing the sheriff?' she says. She was crazy, and she kept on screaming, 'you been screwing the sheriff!'"

Bobby paused and closed his eyes, looking down at the letter the lady-cop wrote him. Some men didn't believe in the fake stories their lawyers made them tell, and Bobby was a terrible liar. "And then she ran into my knife. She ran into my knife ten times."

Lucifer wasn't good at the whole touchy-feely thing when it came to emotions, so he just left the man alone. Besides, it was almost time for his laundry duty.

Despite the fact that everyone knew the fucking-the-dude-strangle-the-wife rumor by now, most were letting it slide. Half the men in here claimed the stories the papers were printing weren't true and at least a quarter of them really victims of defamation of character. It just so happened that the rumors were true in Lucifer's case. Not that anyone would have guessed it. Lucifer was tall – pushing past six feet – and he'd made it a point to stay away from the prison men.

And since weeks had passed without anyone seeing or hearing him get into any situations with any other men, even going so far to organize accidents for the assholes who still pushed him and cornered him on the way to the showers, he was guilty until proven innocent. Enough time had passed for the rumors to die down without proof, but one man on Murder's Row had been taking to him since the first day he woke up in the freezing prison.

And it had been weeks, and Lucifer still couldn't understand a single word Castiel Novak said. But nobody else did either. The man didn't speak English.

Castiel and Lucifer were folding laundry, and for the most part, he liked Castiel even if he didn't know what the hell he was saying. He liked it when the boy sang in whatever his native language was – Russian? Hebrew? Arabic? He couldn't freaking tell – because despite not knowing the words, Lucifer could understand the emotions. And one day, he felt his chest get tight and he turned to look at his friend. Castiel was looking into the washer like it held all of the secrets of life. He was talking about the wife who died to got him sent here and the blond boy was trying really hard to understand. Or at least understand what mattered.

"Yeah, but did you do it?"

"Uh-huh," Castiel said, blue eyes begging Lucifer to believe him. "Not guilty."

Lucifer offered the dark-haired man a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't support him for long. It was dangerous for him to even touch another man, and he quickly made his way from the laundry room to his room. He had to pass all the other men's cells on Murder's Row to get there, and he noticed the commotion in Sam's cell.

Of course, Lucifer knew Sam's story, but it didn't keep him from standing outside the cell when he was telling it to some reporters.

"My brother Dean and I had this double act, and my wife Jess traveled around with us. Now for the last number in our act, we did these twenty acrobatic tricks in a row. One, two, three, four, five; splits, spread eagles, back-flips, flip-flops, one right after the other. So this one night before the show, we're down at the Hotel Cicero." Sam's eyes left the reporters; his attention was fully on Lucifer. Maybe he wanted to tell him the story, brag about it or something. Let him know what happened.

"The three of us boozing, having a few laughs, and we ran out of ice. So I run out to get some. And when I get back, open the door, and there's Dean and Jess doing Number 17: the spread eagle." Sam shook his head, turning his attention back to the reporters. "Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out; I can't remember a thing. It wasn't until later, when I was washing their blood off my hands that I even knew they were dead."

Sam looked away from the reporter one last time. He just grinned, a beautiful thing that showed his teeth, and winked at the blond man.

"They had it coming."

That night, Lucifer had a hard time sleeping. His dreams were haunted by images of Dean and Sam Winchester – Sam's wife Jess – and the various positions involved in their double act.

If there was one person who hated Lucifer the most, it was Chuck. He couldn't get over the rumors, despite the fact that the other five murderers had invited Lucifer to sit with him in the dining hall. Chuck kept his distance, sighing into his food a lot when Lucifer was around. In weeks, the only thing he learned about Chuck and his irrational distrust of Lucifer was that he was a writer, who had been dating a writer. Well, before he killed her.

It took him a while – one month exactly – for him to finally accept the new rumors that the previous rumors had been bullshit (or exactly true, but Lucifer was an even better actor than Luke had been.) That day, he sat across the table from Lucifer, and started in on his story, like he had been dying to tell it.

"I loved Becky more than I could possibly say. She was an artistic girl. Sensitive. A writer. But she was always out trying to find herself. She'd go out every night looking for herself and on the way she found Guy, Garth, Craig… and _Charlene_. I guess you could say we broke up because of artistic differences. She saw herself as alive, and I saw her as dead."

Long story short, Lucifer learned pretty damn fast that any man who killed his wife, seemed to have a damn good reason to do it.

* * *

Castiel did Sam's laundry for a buck a week. And if Lucifer just decided to be a prince and deliver the man's clothes to him, well there wasn't any ulterior motives for that.

He caught the taller man as he was walking out of Zachariah's office. When he saw Lucifer, he flashed him a smile. But when Lucifer took out the other man's clothes and pushed them toward him, the look turned wicked. Sam lifted up his shirt and pulled out some money, but Lucifer shook his head and Sam tucked the money back next to his hipbone. If Lucifer indulged the sight; well, nobody needed to know, right?

"So," Sam said, resting his arm against the door, keeping his shirt up enough to keep the sliver of skin at his hip showing. "Is what they say about you true?"

Lucifer frowned, looking up and down the hall. The guard walked by just a minute ago, so he wouldn't be down this corridor again for another fifteen minutes. Lucifer squeezed his hands into fists. Sam might have a few inches – maybe twenty pounds of muscle – but before Luke became Lucifer, he'd spent his entire life fighting guys. He'd been small until his late teens and the other kids knew he was different.

"What are they saying?" He asked, taking a step forward, hoping he could throw his weight at Sam and get a good punch in before Sam murdered him.

But Sam shot a look around, making sure they were alone, before he leaned in a little closer. "You know why I killed my wife and brother? They were fucking each other."

"I heard," Lucifer breathed.

"See, that wouldn't usually be a problem," Sam's hand was on the door to the bathroom, and Lucifer wasn't sure when he got pinned there, but he suddenly didn't care. "But they did it without me."

Lucifer's mind went blank, not sure if he couldn't process the information because Sam was so close or because of the implication, but when Sam leaned down so their noses were barely touching and raised his eyebrows like he was daring the shorter man to wipe the smirk off of Sam's face, Lucifer found he didn't care. He looked back and forth one more time to make sure they were still alone, and when he saw they were, his hand fisted in Sam's long hair and pulled them together.

Sam growled when their lips touched, his right hand still on the wall to the side of Lucifer's head, his left hand came to rest on the smaller man's hip, pushing him back against the door and pushing himself up against him. To say he had never thought about kissing Sam would be an outrageous lie – even before Michael, Luke would watch the Winchesters perform and fantasize about the younger brother – but he would have never guessed it would be like this. Sam's soft lips fitting almost delicately around Lucifer's bottom lip, tongue barely giving pressure at all: a question not a demand.

Lucifer's free hand started searching for the handle to the bathroom. When he finally turned it, the door gave away with their weight, spilling the men into the room. Sam stumbled with surprise, breaking the soft kiss. Lucifer ducked around the bigger man, shutting the door with a soft click. The laundry bin was outside the room, so it wasn't like they would be hidden for long. The second the guard saw the towels still outside he'd be knocking, so they didn't have time for Sam's sweet loving.

With the door closed, Lucifer turned back to Sam. For the airs he'd been putting on a moment ago, he suddenly looked frightened to be alone in a bathroom with the newest murderer on the block.

"Do you want to do this?" Lucifer asked, because even if he did kill some people, it didn't mean he was a monster.

Sam frowned, setting his jaw to display himself more dominant than he must have been feeling, and hissed, "Yes."

Lucifer grabbed Sam's wrist and spun them around, pushing the bigger man against the door and took control of the situation. The kiss was more desperate this time, tongue and teeth and gasps of breath around groans of pain. Lucifer kicked at Sam's feet, getting him to spread his legs enough so their heads and hips were level with one another. The second they were on even ground, Lucifer's hands dropped to Sam's stomach, rubbing his fingers over his abdominal muscles.

Sam broke the kiss with a surprised gasp, resting his head back against the door. Lucifer pressed his lips against Sam's neck and started working on the man's pants. It took no time to pop the buttons and push them over Sam's hips. Sam tilted his head to let the blond convict have better access to his neck and let a groan when Lucifer's hand tightened around him.

Lucifer smirked against the skin, "What? Has it been a while, Sammy?"

"Shut up," the brunet growled, turning his head to catch Lucifer's lips again, hands working on the smaller boy's pants to reciprocate.

It's been one month and three days for Lucifer, but it has likely been a month longer than that for Sam, and neither of them was going to last long. Sam's free hand was in the short blond hair, holding him close and kissing him like he'd die if they separated. He was bucking into his hand, searching for more friction, and Lucifer's hand pushed Sam's hip against the door. The display of dominance was all it took for Sam to let go with a muffled cry and Lucifer stroked him throughout.

It was amazing, watching Sam come down. His hazel eyes found Lucifer's and offered a small smile as a thank you. Then Sam tilted his head, pushing the kiss from something animalistic to something akin to affectionate and Lucifer followed suit, trying to pull away from the emotion Sam was pouring into him to ride it out in peace, but Sam looped his free arm over the man's shoulders and held them together until Lucifer was done.

They cleaned up in silence, taking turns fixing their pants and washing what they can in the sink. And the silence is normal – completely typical – for Lucifer. It's a straight man playing at gay and regretting it the second he wasn't lust-high. Sam cleaned up first, and when Lucifer turned his hands to the sink, he expected Sam to duck out. He kept his eyes on his hands, down in the sink, and waited to hear the door shut.

Instead, he felt a strong arm wrap around his stomach and a soft pair of lips kiss into the back of the neck. He shut the faucet off and lifted his eyes to look into the mirror. Hazel met blue, and Sam winked.

And then his disappeared from the bathroom. Lucifer sighed and gave him thirty seconds before he walked out of the door. He didn't notice it at first, but Zachariah's door was open, and the patron was leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed, a grin spread out across his face.

Shit.

Lucifer turned back to the laundry, set on ignoring the comments. He was used to them. He so was. But that didn't mean he wanted to be the prison bitch either. Lucifer'd be damned if he fucked Zachariah to keep him quiet. Let him make his life a living hell. He'd be hanging by a rope in a few months anyway. He could at least die with his dignity.

But apparently, that wasn't what this was about.

"He's something, ain't he?" Lucifer turned to look at him, frowning. Zachariah just grinned again. "I'd like to help you," he started walking into his office, and Lucifer followed. So the patron and Sam, huh? Well, he'd like to see Zachariah actually try him. But maybe it wasn't about that either. "Take a load off. So what'd you think you're using for grounds?"

Lucifer sat in the chair in front of the patron's desk, frowning harder. "Grounds?"

"What are you gonna tell the jury?"

Lucifer shrugged. They pretty much knew the truth – even though they couldn't actually _prove_ he killed his wife – so he figured he'd stick to the same story he told police. His wife was dead when he got there and he shot the man who must have done it. Self-defense. A he-said, she-said with the cops and Lucifer didn't really like his odds.

But Zachariah snorted, "What you need is good representation. You need Mister Crowley. He's the best criminal lawyer in all of Illinois." The man poured two glasses of some sort of liquor and held one of the glasses out to Lucifer. He took it in silence, turning the glass over in his hands.

"And how do you get this Mister Crowley?"

"Well it'll cost you. Give me a hundred dollars, and I'll make you a phone call. And let me tell you, he's worth every cent. He's never once lost a case involving a dead wife," Zachariah tilted his head, walking over to the phone. "And a young, good looking fella like you… let's just say justice isn't so blind in Chicago."

"He's never lost a case?"

"Never. Every man in this place would _kill_ to have Crowley represent him."

Lucifer was glad to pass over the hundred bucks for a chance at freedom.

* * *

The first time Lucifer saw Crowley in person, he was standing off to the side behind Sam Winchester. Of course the young vaudeville sensation could afford the best lawyers. Not to mention he was used to being in front of a crowd. In a nice, pressed suit, he rested his feet against the table in the dayroom tipping back in his chair, a hat sitting on his lap.

He smiled when the photographers took a picture of him, letting the smoke from his cigarette add to the ambiance of the pictures.

"Do you remember anything about that night, Mr. Winchester?" the female reporter, Ruby, asked him.

"I passed out completely," Sam said, good at faking innocent. "I don't remember a thing… _except_ that I didn't do it."

Behind him, Crowley grinned.

"Any idea who did?"

Sam's confident smile wavered slightly, and Crowley was walking toward his client. "No, but Mr. Winchester is offering a substantial reward to anyone who has information regarding the murders. Now, if there are no more questions, Mr. Winchester and I have a lot of work to do."

The two of them walked past Lucifer on their way to a more private location to work on the man's defense. Sam was scowling, "what's this about a reward?"

"Don't worry about it. Reporters are awfully dumb; they'll write it up wrong and we'll deny the whole thing later."

* * *

A different day, Mister Crowley was on his way leave the jail when Castiel chased after him with a cell bars between him. He was talking a mile a minute in whatever language he spoke, throwing in "Not guilty, not guilty" as often as he could.

Crowley grinned and winked, but he didn't stop to talk to the innocent man. "You tell them, sweetheart."

* * *

In prison, rumors fly. And the way Crowley actually acted was very different than the way he tried to portray himself. To the press, he was a fighter of the innocent and wrongly accused. He didn't care about suits or jewelry or money, all he cared about was love.

He wanted to make it right. He just wanted to get his boys off.

No, seriously.

But he wore expensive suits, cashmere coats, ruby studs, and satin spats. And before he would even talk to Lucifer, he wanted five thousand dollars. And he said he didn't care if Lucifer did kill Michael and Lilith, and he didn't care _why_ he did it. He made it very clear that Lucifer meant _one_ thing to him.

And it was _not_ a physical representation of lofty ideals like love and justice.

It took a little bit of time for Lucifer to call his sister and get her to sell a bunch of his stuff to make the money, but eventually he had it, and suddenly, his name (well, his _birth_ name) was all over the papers again.

Crowley came up with the angle, and suddenly Luke Milton was the sweetest little Jazz killer in Chitown. He had to be; Crowley said that nobody gave a lick what his defense would be unless they cared about him.

They were sitting with the bars of the cell between them when Crowley pointed a cigar at Lucifer, "So first thing, we have to work up a little sympathy for you from the press. But there is one thing they can never resist… and that is a reformed sinner."

Lucifer snorted, but Crowley kept with the theme.

By the end of their meeting, Crowley had made up a whole back story for him. Luke Milton wanted to be a monk. He lived in a beautiful southern home with every luxury and refinement. His parents were dead, the family fortune was swept away, and he was educated at the Sacred Heart. Then he fell into a runaway marriage which left him miserable and alone.

Worse, Lilith was cheating on him.

"Kid, when I'm done with you, every little princess in the city is going to want to introduce you to her father," Crowley winked, and they got to work.

Lucifer practiced his accent and his story with anyone who'd listen. Usually that meant Zachariah and Crowley, but his favorite person to practice with was Sam. It had been about a week since their bathroom affair, and Lucifer had without a doubt noticed a difference. Suddenly, he was one of the Murderous Seven (previously known as Six Merry Murderers) who lived in the east block. Gabriel would share candy. Castiel was doing his laundry.

It left Lucifer with newly found free time, but he couldn't figure out why the other men were doing it. That is, until he was walking from the dayroom back to his cell and saw Sam reading a book on his cot and realized that despite being here for a month, Lucifer had never once seen Sam do any sort of work.

Lucifer leaned against the open cell door, and Sam looked up at him with a grin, "Well look at you, skipping laundry duty." He sat up, bringing his long legs to fold in front of him, and Lucifer sat down at the foot of the bed. The cot was too small for Sam Winchester, and it barely fit the two men on it.

"So has Crowley reinvented you, yet?"

And for fifteen minutes, Lucifer answered all of Sam's questions with his best Luke impression. A southern gentleman, kind and soft, and when Sam got tired of talking and tried to lean in for a kiss, Lucifer did what the new Luke should do and swatted him away.

"Oh no, sir," Lucifer even managed to force a blush. Sam was looking at him through half-lidded eyes, and the acting was becoming painful. "I'm still devoted to my poor departed wife."

"You are not. You killed her," Sam accused, growling. "And I like Lucifer better."

And who could deny flattery like that? Lucifer took charge and pushed Sam back against the bed. For being so confident and sure of himself, Sam submitted easily. He took naturally to the bottom, wrapping his long legs around Lucifer's hips, letting out a loud sigh like he didn't care it was the middle of the day and anyone could walk by his cell and see them.

Lucifer rocked his hips forward, pushed Sam's hair out of his face, and kissed him.

Sam's hands went to Lucifer's hips, fingers threading through the blond man's belt loops and tugging, grinding up into Lucifer. The smaller man gasped at the contact, breaking the kiss. He leaned back, sitting between Sam's legs, fingers flying through the buttons of the striped shirt. With a hand tugging at the back of Sam's neck, Lucifer got the taller man to sit up before he shoved the shirt over his shoulders, yanking the under shirt up and over his head.

The cold prison air caused goose bumps to erupt over the man's bare torso, and he laid back down, breathing a little harder than necessary for what they'd done so far. When Lucifer ran his fingers over the exposed flesh, Sam winced and tried to pull away.

"Cold," he said, when Lucifer gave him a quizzical look.

"Colder than the air?"

Sam nodded, but he pushed his hips off the bed, trying to force more contact. Lucifer smirked and raked his fingernails down the man's chest. "The night you got arrested…"

"Oh, fuck me," Sam groaned, tugging on Lucifer's hips again.

"No, listen," but Lucifer leaned over the other man, right hand holding him upright, the left hand tracing the muscles in his chest and stomach. He nipped at Sam's shoulder, and one of Sam's hands abandoned his hips to cover the back of Lucifer's head. He was pushing, trying to get the man lower. Lucifer obliged, kissing his collarbone. "I was there the night you got arrested and you performed alone."

Sam arched his back when Lucifer tongued a nipple, but otherwise didn't respond to the words.

"That night… that was the best I ever saw you," Lucifer bit at some skin at Sam's stomach, his hands working on the buttons of the taller man's uniform. "The way you danced with those other people, the way that the boys ran their hands over you, and when you pinned that girl up against the table. And God, I just thought about being up there with you."

"Oh, Jesus," Sam groaned, lifting his hips so Lucifer could tug his pants down his hips. He didn't remove himself from between the other man's legs, and could only get the pants down enough to free him. Lucifer bit Sam's bare thigh, and the hand tightened in his hair. The blond man looked up, admiring the flush over the other man's chest and face. He gripped a hand lazily around Sam, using his wrist to slide his hand up and down slowly. Sam's mouth opened, his head settled back against the scratchy, prison pillow.

"I just mean, I think you're way better without your brother," On an upstroke, Lucifer's tongue followed his hand, licking the underside before putting his mouth around Sam on the down stroke. The noise that escaped Sam was pornographic, completely content and unafraid. Lucifer realized that Sam really didn't care if they were caught then.

But still, Sam wouldn't exactly be the one to get beaten and raped in the shower if they were caught at this point. He was the tallest, strongest guy in jail and he wasn't the one on his knees.

One of Sam's hands flexed in Lucifer's hair, the other flexed in the sheets of the cot. He tried to lift his hips up, but Lucifer held him down with his free forearm, twisting his hand on the upstroke. Sam writhes, trying to force Lucifer down and his hips up, but the blond man growled and dug his fingernails into Sam's hips. Sam let out another moan, and Lucifer felt him twitch before releasing. Sam's hand let up, letting the blond man move, but he kept his mouth around him, stroking him throughout.

And when Sam was lying back, chest sweaty and heaving, a hand over his forehead, Lucifer cleaned the taller man off with his tongue, earning him a final groan, before he sat back on his heels. Sam opened his eyes, watching as Lucifer ran the back of his hand across his lips. A small smile formed on the taller man's lips as he pushed his thighs down where they were still sprawled over Lucifer's and pulled his pants back up. He fumbled with the buttons for a second, before the blond man reached down and threaded them carefully through the holes.

"Did you mean that?" Sam asked. "About me being better without Dean?"

"Yeah," Lucifer's hand rested over Sam's hip in a way that felt more intimate than the activity they just engaged in. "No question about it. You thrived up there without him. And I know, because I went to your show two or three times a week for months. I wanted to have my own act. I wanted to perform on stage, so I studied the best. And everyone always screamed about your brother, but not me. For me, it was only you, Sam."

Sam's hand rested over Lucifer's for a moment, and their eyes met for ten, excruciatingly long seconds before Sam shoved Lucifer's shoulders away. For a split second, Lucifer thought the man was reacting poorly to compliment, but when Lucifer's back hit the bars and Sam's hands found the man's knees and spread them apart, Lucifer's breath caught in his throat. Sam settled himself between Lucifer's outstretched legs, pressing their lips together, teeth finding the blond man's bottom lip and tugging. Sam's hand dropped to Lucifer's lap, and he rubbed him through the cotton pants.

Lucifer's hands wrapped around Sam's shoulders and tugged him closer, forcing his tongue to slide across the taller man's lips around the same time that Sam's hands finished popping the buttons on Lucifer's pants and started lifting up on the man's waist to pull the material away. Lucifer lifted his hips, and Sam freed him, hand wrapping around the blond man, their lips never separating.

Lucifer's legs didn't wrap around Sam the way Sam's had. Despite the fact that Sam was larger and quite literally hovering over the smaller man, pinning him against the cell wall, he didn't display dominance. He acted like he was reciprocating, like it was mandatory, and maybe he was being a little more gentle than he should be for how rough Lucifer treated him. The blond boy pushed at the man's shoulder, and Sam obliged, opting to rest their foreheads together and share labored breaths.

"Do you want me to blow you, now?" Sam asked, opening his eyes a sliver to peer into pale blue.

"Don't ask; do what you want," Lucifer lifted his hips, pushing himself into Sam's hand. The blond boy lifted his hands, wrapping them around the bars, and using his arms to push his hips up, thrusting into Sam's palm. The taller man's breath hitched, and Lucifer kept at it. "Take it. Take control." He grinned, lips spreading thin over his teeth. "You can do whatever you want to me."

Sam apparently took that as a challenge because he shifted himself back, tugging Lucifer's hips with him. The man's pants were completely off and discarded on the floor; his back was against the cot, and Sam handed him the pillow to prop his head up. Lucifer looked behind him, making sure they were still alone. The entire block was silent – everyone was down in the dayroom – but it was almost eerily quiet. Sam settled between his legs, resuming his pace with his hands again, before licking his lips. Lucifer watched him, hoping that there was a reason that the dark-haired man was doing that.

"Too bad you're so good," Sam suddenly said. "Or I could have fucked you." But he said it with the tiniest upward inflection – like asking a question – and Lucifer nodded, giving him permission for next time.

"Too bad," Lucifer agreed, lifting his hips one more time. This time, Sam growled, putting a hand on his hip to hold him down before pressing his lips around Lucifer and the shorter man's eyes rolled back in his head. It took all of thirty seconds for him to realize that Sam had – without a doubt – done this before, and his mind flashed back to the last time they were together. How Sam said that if only his brother and wife had _invited him_ and the thought sent tremors over his body.

But that was nothing to when he felt something pressing against his lips. Lucifer opened his mouth without question, opening his eyes when he felt Sam slide in his pointer and middle finger. The brunet's eyes were open and asking permission, and Lucifer sat up a bit, so Sam wasn't stretching as far, and just closed his mouth around the digits, running his tongue over the intrusion to get them wet. Sam pulled back, but Lucifer could feel the man's heavy breath on his thigh, and when he took his fingers back, Lucifer asked, "You're ready again?"

"No," Sam looked down, chest and neck suddenly flushed again. "But…"

He never continued with whatever the _but_ was; instead, he returned his mouth to Lucifer on a down stroke. When his fist was all the way down, the man's mouth covered the rest of him, and Lucifer's fingers fisted into the sheets on the cot. Two strokes later, he felt the brunet's pointer pushing at him, and instead of flexing on instinct, he let his knees fall farther apart until one was up against the cement wall, and his other foot slid back up the bed, until his knee was bent and leaning off the side of the bed. He pushed his heels down on the cot, tucking his tail bone, giving Sam easier access. Sam took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed the finger into the other man.

Lucifer was significantly quieter than his partner, but he couldn't help the grateful, contented sigh that slipped from his mouth. One hand left the mattress to fist into Sam's long, beautiful hair, and the man opened his eyes and looked up at him again.

They were so full of surprise and lust and something else that Lucifer pushed at his head and shut his eyes, too overwhelmed to place the swell in his chest. That seemed to work to his advantage because Sam was suddenly moving his finger in time with his hand and his mouth and the blond man couldn't get the air in his lungs fast enough.

It seemed like forever later that the second finger was added, and Lucifer was cursing the fact Sam wasn't ready yet. It had been too long, and he'd thought about the man between his legs too often. And then Sam gave a slight curl to his fingers, pressing up. He missed the spot twice, but when he found it, Lucifer's left knee was drawn closer in a flinch he couldn't quite control, and his fingers tangled in the man's hair, a choked cry spilling from his mouth.

Sam repeated the previous movement with his hands and his wrist twisted, offering a slight change in pressure and Lucifer was trying to warn Sam, but nothing came out but long groan, and his body went slack at the same time that white painted his eyelids. And Sam tongued at the skin still in his mouth; his hand remained stroking the man until the shudders ceased.

And then Sam mimicked Lucifer's previous cleaning ritual until the blond man started wincing with his hyper-sensitivity, and Sam helped him pull his pants back up. As Lucifer was buttoning the material together, Sam reached for his undershirt and pulled it back over his head. Then he slipped his arms through the sleeves of the uniform, fingers working quickly to hide all evidence of what they'd done.

Lucifer had barely regained his breath, but every second he laid on Sam's cot with his hands over his face, he was overstaying his welcome. He was about to sit up when he felt the cot shift in the space between him and the wall. The cot in Lucifer's room barely fit him, and no cot in Cook County Jail would fit a behemoth like Sam, but somehow the two of them could squeeze together. Lucifer rolled on his side to face Sam, trying to offer the larger man as much room as possible.

But Sam put a hand on Lucifer's hip and tried to draw the man closer. "You wanted to perform the circuit?" Lucifer nodded, and Sam grinned, "Can you sing at all? Or dance?"

Lucifer shrugged a bit. His wife used to say he could sing – he'd sing when he was cooking or showering – but he didn't know how much of it was a wife's obligation and how much was genuine.

Sam just laughed, reaching out a tentative hand to trace his thumb over Lucifer's swollen bottom lip. "Well even if you can't, you've got the face for it. And wouldn't you know my double act just went solo. How's about when we get out of here, I teach you the moves. We could make a killing, I bet." The brunet thought about it for a second, before he frowned at his word choice.

Lucifer just laughed.

* * *

But a week later, things got difficult.

Money to Zachariah gave him a haircut. Lucifer sort of liked his hair longer, but Crowley said they were trying to make him look sweet but manly. They needed to dispel the rumors that he'd been the one sleeping with Michael, because no jury in Chicago would let him walk on the grounds that he slept with men alone.

And when he said that, Crowley shot a look across the dayroom to where Sam was playing poker with Chuck, Bobby, and Balthazar. How Crowley had found out was completely beyond Lucifer, but the point was driven home really clearly. Whatever was going on with the only surviving Winchester had to stop, for both their sakes. He wasn't going to listen to his demon of a lawyer. Lucifer was starting to value Sam more than his freedom, anyway. They'd just be sneakier about it.

But money to Crowley (_and _Zachariah, so Crowley could sneak it into the block for him) bought him a nice suit. It made him look innocent, maybe a little bookish, but undeniably good looking. When he walked out into the day room with his hair cut and in his new suit, he couldn't help to notice the way Crowley stopped talking and stared at him. Sam – the client he was supposed to be talking to – turned around, annoyed, but the look Sam gave him only proved that the plan they had was working.

He couldn't wait until he cornered Sam alone in the bathroom in this thing. The only thing he couldn't decide was whether he wanted to bend Sam over the sink or get himself pinned up between the wall and the performer's strong arms.

But it seemed like Sam got the same speech he did about how a jury would let a man who laid with other men hang, because he didn't see him at all that night. And Lucifer's first press conference was tomorrow. Lucifer was ready for it – he really was – but when he curled up to sleep that night and let poor, sweet Luke take over, he couldn't help but feel nervous. After all, if the public didn't like him, he may as well use his belt to hang himself and save the tax payers some money.

He couldn't sleep, so he just opened up the notebook – no, the _diary_ – Zachariah had given him, and started drawing. He'd only written in it a handful of times, and always things that were things that people would want to hear. And by that, he meant, lies about his innocence. If nothing else, it helped him keep in character.

* * *

When Crowley and Luke Milton walked out of the court house, there were reporters lined up down the street. Cameras flashed, and Luke managed to play up the innocent look by pushing his fedora further up on his head.

"Gentleman and Ruby, my client has just entered a plea of not guilty, and we look forward to a speedy trial," Crowley grinned at the crowd. "Now are there any questions?"

And of course, Crowley called on Ruby. The woman gave Luke a look that set the man on edge – it was a look he saw on men in alleyways more often than women – but he just ducked his head and smiled politely. He was supposed to be mourning his dead wife, after all.

The questions were being asked, and Luke answered. He put a little extra effort into his supposed southern accent, even though he thought it made him sound more ignorant than innocent, but he couldn't help but realize that he was quoting Crowley as if the other man had anticipated the questions and scripted the whole thing.

Luke wasn't anything more than Crowley's puppet.

"So tell us, Luke, who was Michael?"

"Lilith's boyfriend."

"Why'd he kill her?"

"She was leaving, because we had gotten the news that we were expecting."

"Was he angry?"

"Like a madman. When he wouldn't move along, she fought him but he was too strong."

"Then describe it."

"I walked in; he came toward me with the pistol from my bureau."

"Did you fight him?"

"Like a tiger. He had strength, and I had none, and yet we both reached for the gun."

The reporters seemed to eat that up. It was understandable. A man walked into his home, his wife was lying on the bed, he they both reached for the gun, and Luke just happened to be the one who got the shot off. Not only was it self-defense, Luke was avenging his poor dead wife.

(Although, when asked, he didn't know his wife was dead when he shot Michael. He thought he was _protecting_ his wife, not _avenging _her.)

It wasn't long after Lucifer let Luke fall away like dead skin, when he was back in his cell, reading the paper that came out about how they both reached for the gun, did Lucifer really appreciate how good Crowley was at this defense lawyer business.

Or at least, his puppeteer business. Because maybe Lucifer wasn't the only one who was having his strings being pulled. The whole damn city – and soon, the jury too – would all just be dummies for Crowley to pull around.

Then again, the paper had a small article on DA Adam Milligan and how he promised that Luke Novak would be hanged for his senseless murder(s). The paper said if he managed to follow through and keep this promise, he might be well on his way to becoming the governor of Illinois.

And that kind of scared him.

* * *

Sam Winchester didn't care about too much. His life had kind of sucked – mom died when he was a baby, dad was a drunk until he finally bit the dust in a car accident, leaving just him and Dean with nothing to their name – but at least it had mostly been his.

Well, his life had been Dean's.

Dean Winchester was a good man, if you had a thing for strong guys that drank too much and fucked any bird with two legs and knockers. And Sam did, because no matter what happened with Dean and those women, the older Winchester would never be far from Sam.

On their darkest nights, Dean would sleep with a girl just to have a place to stay and when she fell asleep for the night, he'd open the door and let Sam crash on the couch. When they caught a break and had a tour lined up, Dean would forsake his groupies to push Sam against the wall, issuing orders with whiskey breath that Sam would be all too happy to oblige.

Because in the end, none of those girls mattered to Dean. Dean loved _Sam,_ and he'd never love anybody else. He said so. They were brothers, and that made what they had special.

But the night he walked in on Dean and Jessica – the _things_ Dean was saying to her while he didn't think Sam was there – about how she deserved better than his brother. A real man. Him. And _Oh, yeah, baby – I love you_. He just snapped.

When he sat down and really thought about it, Jessica was a sweet girl – nice and pretty – but so was Lilith. Sam had seen the papers back when Lucifer was first arrested. He'd known the second he saw the photographs in the obituaries for Lilith and Michael what was up with the newest inmate on Murderer's Row. Michael just _looked_ like the same type of guy Dean was, and Lilith was a pretty little broad, enough to take suspicion away.

And Sam knew the type, because he was the type.

And for some reason, the connection he felt because of it was something fierce. The things Lucifer stirred in Sam were better than even the best times he ever had before. It was like the man brought out an animal in the younger Winchester. And Sam liked their kinship.

Sam had been disturbingly co-dependent on Dean his entire life. His first thought was to say that Lucifer had taken Dean's place, but that seemed unfair. What he had with Lucifer was just so… so…

"The tour's canceled."

Sam looked up at Zachariah, frowning. He spent enough time drinking in the patron's office to not be surprised he blanked out and thought about Lucifer. He thought about the blond man even more now that touching him would mean their death. If, of course, someone ever caught them.

"What?"

"You've been out of the papers too long. Nobody cares about you anymore. All they care about is sweet little Luke Milton."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Sam asked, standing up and leaning forward, towering over Zachariah. "Suck up to him?"

"I would say 'it wouldn't hurt,' but you gotta watch yourself, kid. The ball ain't in your court anymore, so you have to help him to help yourself, but you can't _help_ him help him. Do you understand me?"

Sam frowned, "No."

"Suck up to him, Sammy. But don't suck him and don't let him suck you. You wanna get out of here, remember? Don't blow it. Literally."

* * *

When Crowley got Lucifer off, he was going into vaudeville. The publicity was almost overwhelming, and he was going to be huge. A celebrity – somebody everyone knows. They're going to recognize his eyes, his hair, his teeth, his clothes, his nose.

Who says that murder's not an art? And who, in case he doesn't hang, can say he started with a bang?

Lucifer.

He didn't even realize that he was staring into the mirror in the bathroom until he felt an arm wrapped around his waist, and saw Sam's chin rest on his shoulder, grinning at their reflections. "The name on everybody's lips is gonna be _Lucy_."

Lucifer smirked at the man, turning around to push his way past Sam – Crowley said they had to stop this until they got off (if only they could stop _when_ they got off) – and Lucifer'd be damned if he ruined Sam's chances at freedom along with his. The taller boy grinned, giving Lucifer a completely forbidden kiss, and Lucifer let himself indulge in the other man's stubble, the way his hand gripped his hips, his smell, until he pushed at his chest and ducked around him.

Sam looked genuinely hurt for a second, before he followed Lucifer out of the bathroom and into the dayroom. It was empty already – the other men had made their way back to their cells – and a guard's voice shouted down over the block, "Light's out in ten minutes," which meant they should probably get back to their cells anyway.

"Hey, did I ever tell you that you are exactly the same size as my brother?" Lucifer looked up at Sam with a strange look on his face, and Sam pushed away the thought and clarified: "I mean you'd fit into his costumes perfectly."

"Oh," Lucifer breathed. "Really?"

"Yes, and now that my brother is unfortunately deceased," Lucifer actually snorted at that, and Sam smiled at the reaction, "All that remains is the remains of a perfect double act. I thought I could start teaching you the moves now, if you'd like."

They had ten minutes, and they weren't supposed to touch. They were supposed to stay right away from each other – any two prisoners getting two comfortable started people talking – but Lucifer couldn't be bothered to care about them. He watched Sam dance, he let Sam guide him, and in the end, he knew Sam was lying.

Back before Lucifer was Lucifer, Luke Milton used to spend nights at the Onyx just to watch Sam Winchester dance. And some of the moves were similar, without a doubt. But they were never the moves of Sam and Dean Winchester – they were the moves of Sam and his girl partners, or Dean and his – and it more than left Lucifer panting against the cell wall, hot and bothered, grinning at the way Sam's large hand rested on his hip.

"I think we've got time for a quick one," Sam breathed, hand sliding off from the side of the hip to the front, and even though he was half hard already, Lucifer smacked his hand away, shaking his head. "What?"

"No," Lucifer said.

"Why not?"

Lucifer frowned, trying to control his breathing. Instead, he just ducked under Sam's arm for a second time that night, and yelled back over his shoulder, "You know why."

"Lucifer," Sam called out, and the man stopped. Since the press conference, most people had gone back to referring to him as Luke. Sam still saw the distinction that the man truly wasn't Luke Milton any longer. "My case has been postponed indefinitely. I… I'm not going to make it out of here. But you still can, and you know what, you're right. I'm sorry."

Lucifer went back to his room and started scribbling in his blue notebook, frowning. He wished Sam wouldn't make this so difficult. They needed to focus on getting out of jail. Then there'd be plenty of places for them to hide and be private.

They just had to get out. They both had to get out.

* * *

Sam must have gotten the hint because he didn't run into him for a solid week after that and that was a lot more impressive than it sounded because they were on the same block with only five other guys. They ate their meals separately, when they were in the dayroom, they were as far apart as two people could get, and even though Lucifer had enough money to pay Castiel to do his laundry these days, he went down to the laundry room with Balthazar and Gabriel just for something to do.

Lucifer didn't even notice Castiel was missing from the laundry room until he got back to the dayroom and heard screaming. The other inmates were rushing toward the sound, but Sam Winchester sat in the corner, one had in his hair and the other holding a trembling cigarette to his lips.

"What happened?" Lucifer asked, breaking the code of silence they had going. Sam winced at the voice, like just speaking to the other man caused him some sort of physical pain, and he gestured toward commotion.

"It's Castiel. He lost his last appeal."

Lucifer leaned against the table Sam was sitting on, his hand finding the taller man's leg just for comfort. "What's that mean?"

Sam's hand fell out of his hair, and he sat it down between them on the table. Everyone else was looking away, but if they looked toward them, they just seemed to be sitting next to each other. But Sam squeezed Lucifer's hand, the pad of his thumb tracing over the bones in the blond's hand.

"It means next week, he's gonna…" Sam squeezed Lucifer's hand. He put the cigarette in his mouth and pantomimed a hanging. After a second, when they looked up from the dayroom, they could see Zachariah leading Castiel back to his cell. The dark-haired man held a crucifix in his hand, and Lucifer wondered if God could save any of them.

* * *

Sam sat on Lucifer's bed reading the Bible he kept at his bedside. His parents had been really religious, and that had been half the reason Crowley made him tell everyone that he wanted to be a monk. Keeping the Bible there was good for photo-ops, and on really dark days, it brought some comfort.

It reminded him of home – not that anyone there loved or accepted him – but still, it was a comfort.

"If you don't get a trial date, what will happen to you?"

Sam sighed, and Lucifer heard him turn the page. "Nothing. I'll get a trial, but it won't be with Crowley and the press won't care about me. My defense was weak anyway – I blacked out and can't remember anything? – people black out in rage and murder people all the time. Crowley should at least owe me my money back for putting me up to that shitty defense. I should have been a monk who got in a runaway marriage. Or, you know, a hustler selling himself to dirty old men in an alley for a buck. I could'a had Dean killing Jess and me shooting him in self defense. Or, you know, fucking Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, while my wife was working in the shirt factory because I don't have any work."

Lucifer growled, "Stop it. Don't you take it out on me. And don't you bring up that shit I had to do to survive in this town when I was a kid. You were here first, you should'a thought of that."

"It doesn't matter," Sam snapped, closing the Bible. He turned to look at his friend, and pointed a finger at him. "I'm glad you clean up well, Lucifer. I'm really fucking glad. At least one of us will get out. And if I don't think of something fucking soon, I'm gonna hang from my neck like the guy who shared a cell next to me since I got here. Okay? I've been listening to him cry 'not guilty' for months, and you know what, I don't think he was. I don't think he killed her. So what shot do I have, huh? I shot my wife and brother cause they were fucking each other, Lucifer. And I was jealous because he fucking lied. He told me he loved me. And I have to think of something big… something before my eventual trial… to get me out of here. Because I do not want to fucking hang like that."

Lucifer was freezing. He drew the scratchy blanket over his shoulders and tightened it over his chest. He watched from the window as two men dragged the cart and coffin carrying Castiel's body toward the prison cemetery. He turned away from the window and sat on the bed close enough to Sam so that he could feel the other man's body heat.

But they didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say.

* * *

Lucifer's trial was starting in minutes, and he was scared. Sam had assured him that he'd get out too – that he was already starting to think of a plan – but Lucifer had his doubts. But he couldn't worry about Sam now. Crowley was his attorney, he's never lost a case, and right now, the only thing that mattered was Lucifer putting on a good show so he could get out of the cage.

He didn't even kiss Sam goodbye.

Crowley was giving him some last minute advice – don't look at the jury, don't speak at all, just let Crowley do all the talking – but none of it was working. If he was found innocent, he'd have to hope Sam could get out too. If he was found guilty, he might have an appeal or two, but by the end of the year, he'd be dead. He'd have Sam for a month or maybe two, but then he'd be dead – and he probably wouldn't go to a place as nice as Castiel was going.

"Crowley?" Lucifer's hands held his hat a little too tightly. His hair was parted on the side, and he was sure he looked every bit as innocent as they were going for. "I'm scared."

Crowley froze at that, turning to face his client. They didn't always get along – he had been the stick that drove a wedge between him and Sam, after all – but he was all they had now. Crowley sighed and shook his head, "Don't be. I've been around a long time, and believe me: you've got nothing to worry about. It's all a circus… a three-ring circus. These trials, the whole world, it's all show business." Crowley smiled, took Lucifer's hat and placed it on his head, tilting it until it was perfect. His smile turned into grin and he held his arms open. "And kid, you're working with a star."

They walked into the courtroom, and Luke took over, giving shy smiles to the flashing cameras before sitting down and staying completely silent through the opening statements and the first few witnesses. Crowley was right. The British man was a great speaker – but it was more than that – he was an actor. The jury and judge hung on every word. He was in his element. He was a superstar.

When Crowley was demonstrating how Luke and Michael both reached for the gun, Luke was sure to look away from the violence – to fake horror and shame – and Crowley offered him a pleased smile at the end of the display.

Luke was the last one to take the stand, and he kept his head down, aiming to be as timid as possible. And they handled it as well as they possibly could have. The questions were ones they'd practiced since before his press conference – his wife was having an affair, but she was ending it because they were expecting a baby, when she tried to leave, Michael was furious, when Luke got home from work, Michael was rushing at him with the pistol, Luke managed to get the gun and he shot him, thinking he was not only saving himself, but his poor wife and unborn child, and when he got to the bedroom, he realized with horror that his wife was already dead – and the jury ate it up.

* * *

Zachariah and Sam were sitting in the patron's office, drinking liquor a little too strong for the time of day that it was, and listening to Ruby's radio coverage of the trial.

"It sounds like he's doing good," Sam said, sitting on the patron's desk. He held the drink between his legs, turning the glass over in his hands. He had a strange feeling in his stomach, and he couldn't quite identify whatever he was feeling. They called a recess, and Zachariah shut the radio off. "I hope he gets off."

"Winchester, when you came in here, you were the talk of the town. You killed your wife and your brother, for God's sakes, and you go soft for what? For a dandy? You know how many guys he must have blown in his life? You think you're actually special to him at all?" Zachariah lit a cigarette. "He was just using you to steal your fame, your lawyer, and get himself off a few times in the process."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, daddy," Sam said, looking into his drink, not convinced either way anymore.

"Aw, come on, Sammy. You don't think I asked you up here just to listen to my radio, do you?" He put the cigarette in his mouth and started digging through one of the drawers at his desk. Sam turned around, sitting in the chair to face the patron. Sam took the liquor in one shot, his eyes growing wide when he saw the blue diary being held in front of him.

"People write some pretty interesting things when they think nobody's looking," Zachariah tossed the book on his desk in front of Sam. "And boy, you should hear how I stumbled across this."

Sam laughed, opening the diary.

* * *

"State calls a rebuttal witness."

Sam marched into the courtroom with complete confidence. He removed his hat as he entered the room, and they hadn't asked him to cut his hair. It was slicked back and tied at the base of his neck, as it was when he performed. It made him look older, more official and respectable, and Luke was gone.

Lucifer was confused, and he frowned at whatever Sam was playing at. But then he was filled with rage – Sam had said he had a plan to get out – he said that at least one of them should get out. And if he made a deal and wrecked Lucifer's trial, then he'd be the one on the outside, and Lucifer would be the one hanging with nobody there to claim his body. The brunet took the stand among camera flashes and confused mumbling from the press, and the bailiff swore him in.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Sam looked right at Lucifer and winked, "And then some."

"Please be seated."

DA Milligan was standing and approaching Sam on the stand, and the man looked away from the defendant to look at the man asking the questions. "Please state your name for the record."

"Samuel Winchester."

"And Mr. Winchester, will you please tell the court if this is the object that you happened to come upon in the defendant's jail cell?"

"Yes, it is," Sam said with a smile.

"I submit this to the jury as exhibit x."

Crowley stood, yelling, "I object! My client has never kept a diary, and even if he did, this would be an invasion of privacy and a violation of his fourth amendment rights… search and seizure without a warrant."

"Yeah," Lucifer growled. "And he broke the lock."

The crowd was mumbling, and the judge allowed the evidence. Crowley leaned in to warn Lucifer to be quiet, but the blond man frowned and whispered, "I don't know what the big deal is – it's mostly doodles."

Crowley shushed him, and DA Milligan opened to a page and asked Sam to read, "_'What a laugh, plugging Michael. The big baboon had it coming. I'm just sorry I only got to kill him once.'_"

"I never wrote that," Lucifer said, frowning at Sam with a look of pure betrayal. Crowley started shushing him again, trying especially hard to make it look like general anger and less like betrayal among lovers. "He made that up. Why would he make that up?"

"Order! Order!" the judge banged his gavel. "Please, Mr. Crowley, get control of your client."

Crowley tugged him down and hissed, "You're only making it worse." Lucifer fell silent.

"I have no more questions," DA Milligan stated as he returned to his seat.

Crowley stood and walked up to Sam in the stand, taking the diary and flipping through it. "Tell me, Mr. Winchester, did you make a deal with Mr. Milligan? Maybe he'll drop all charges in exchange for you testifying here today?"

"Sure," Sam shrugged, offering a grin, "I'm not a complete idiot." Everyone in the courtroom laughed, except for the defendant. And both Crowley and Sam ignored the way Lucifer sighed. It sounded too _relieved_ or something.

Crowley stopped flipping at a page, and he held it out to Sam, "Would you read this for me?"

"'_Michael assured me he would get me an audition down at the Onyx, and then he re-uh-reneged on his pledge and that was my motive for attacking him.'_" Sam shut the book and sat it on the stand.

"That's kind of a fancy way of saying 'he's a big fat liar who welshed on a deal, so I shot him.'" Crowley opened the book to another page, frowned, and read, "_'When I accused Lilith of having the affair, and she told me that the charge was erroneous.'_"

"Objection, your honor," DA Milligan stood. "Mister Crowley us twisting the evidence to draw conclusions that are specious and…"

"Erroneous?" Crowley supplied innocently.

"Exactly!" The courtroom laughed and the judge banged his gavel.

"Mr. Winchester," Crowley started again. "Do you know that perjury is a crime? And I'd hate for you to spend the next ten years in jail, especially now that you just won your freedom."

"Look," Sam sighed, lifting his eyebrows and frowning at Crowley. "All I know is what I was told."

The room murmured again, and Crowley looked confused for a moment before he went on, "Oh, so you didn't find this in Luke Milton's cell?"

"No," Sam's eyes crossed to Lucifer again. "Daddy – um, I mean – Zachariah gave it to me. And he said that someone sent it to him."

"Do you have an idea who this mysterious benefactor might be?"

"No, he didn't know."

"All right, let's see if we can work this out. Someone who writes about reneging on pledges and erroneous charges. Call me crazy, but doesn't that sound like a lawyer?" Crowley opened his arms and looked at the jury. "A lawyer who had a sample of my client's handwriting. Um, Mr. Milligan, didn't you ask Luke to write out a confession?"

"Yes," DA Milligan sat back in his chair. "But you're not suggesting I tampered with evidence, are you?"

"No, no, no. I wouldn't do that. Don't be ridiculous," Crowley held up his hands in innocence, before turning to face the jury again, tilting his head with a shy grin. "But now that you mention it…"

"Your honor, this is outrageous," DA Milligan stood up.

"I know! It's outrageous to even suggest that the prosecutor would make a thieves' bargain with the notorious Sam Winchester and then fabricate the very evidence that set her free, just so he could win another case and move one step closer to the Governor's Mansion! Why, it's simply beyond all imagination," Crowley slammed the diary on the DA's desk, before he jumped and spun to the jury. "It is inconceivable! But if it were, wouldn't it be time to say: 'Come clean, Mr. Milligan. Even in Chicago, this kind of corruption cannot stand!'"

"That's enough, Mister Crowley," the judge was yelling.

"I agree, Your Honor! It _is_ enough!" Crowley took a deep sigh and walked back to his table and sat next to Lucifer. "The defense rests."

* * *

Lucifer sat quietly at his table, watching the jury file back in. He didn't look at them when the man on the end stood, or when the judge asked, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor."

Crowley stood, and Lucifer stood next to him, sparing a glance at the men deciding his fate. He took a deep breath and leaned forward.

"What is your verdict?"

"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty."

Outside the courthouse, gunshots fired, and everyone in the courthouse rushed outside to see the action. Lucifer rests his hands on the table, breathing the last shreds of the southern, wannabe monk away, and filling his lungs full as the angel who fell from grace. Rumors trickle back in: a woman shot her husband and the lawyer.

Crowley is smoking a cigar, and Lucifer is left without any of the fame he had merely moments ago. And he didn't really care. He remembered a time when he shot Michael because he couldn't get him on stage. Now, he had the fame and lost it, but was looking around the courthouse, for something more. Something that wasn't there anymore. "Hey, Crowley what happened?"

"This is Chicago, kid. You can't beat fresh blood on the walls."

"But what about Sam? Where is he?" Lucifer started walking away, walking toward the door, and Crowley pushed the diary across the table at him.

"Here, don't forget this. I hope you don't mind that I added a few _erroneous_ phrases." Lucifer turned and looked back at him. "Sorry, I couldn't tell you. I couldn't take the chance. I never lost a case." Crowley stood, grabbing his fur coat and slipping it over his shoulders, a grin still on his face. "You are a free man, Luke Milton, and wouldn't you know it, I made Sam Winchester a free man too. So you're welcome for that, but a little piece of advice? You may want to be a little bit more discrete out here than you were in the clink. Also, try not to kill each other. But if one of you slips, the other can feel free to call me."

Crowley slipped his hat on his head, gave a wink, and walked out of the courtroom.

Lucifer ran to the window and looked out into the rain. The street was crawling with policemen and reporters, a woman was cuffed and being pushed into the back of a police carriage, and across the street, Sam Winchester was lighting a cigarette, and looking at the door, just waiting for Lucifer to come out.

* * *

The last time Sam Winchester was on stage before a crowd he had just shot and killed his brother and wife and had barely had time to wash the blood off his hands. This time, nearly a year after his double homicide, his hands were placed firmly on Lucifer's hips, flushing his front across the smaller man's back while Lucifer put on his gloves.

Sam expected Lucifer to be more nervous – but since the trial had basically been a stage, and he'd performed well enough to get off – the blond boy wasn't nervous about this either. Sam liked to look at their faces in the dressing room's mirror, lit by bulbs on three sides, and he liked watching the blond's reaction to the kisses he placed on his neck.

Lucifer looked up and met Sam's eyes in the mirror. It had taken months, but he was finally used to the blue. He never expected to see green. Not anymore.

"So that's the secret to your success on stage?" Lucifer joked. "To get off first?"

Sam laughed and licked his lips, watching in the mirror as his tongue met the Lucifer's neck. The smaller body shivered, and a grin broke out on Sam's face. "That would be bad… getting off first, I mean. The trick is to not pop the cork, but shake the bottle. If you go in hot, you'll burn the place down."

In the mirror, Sam saw Lucifer's eyebrows rise at the suggestion. He turned around and used his arms to lift himself up on the counter. He leaned back and rocked Sam's hips against his. Another reason Sam liked the blue eyes more than the green was the foreplay. Lucifer could get him going in a hot second, like the way he used an arm around his neck for leverage, grinding up into Sam and refusing their lips to meet. It was frustrating as hell, the looks the blond boy would shoot him from under his eyelashes were deadly, but that was the whole point of it.

A knock on the door got them to separate, bottle thoroughly shaken, and on the way to the stage they adjusted their clothes. They were left alone under the stage, and right before the announcer started his introduction, Sam crossed the distance to kiss his lover. This time, Lucifer let it happen.

They got on their separate platforms, and the mechanics brought them up to the stage as the introduction sounded around them.

"_Ladies and Gentleman, the Chicago theatre is proud to announce a first. The first time anywhere, there has been an act of this nature. Not one little jazz man, but two. You've read about them in the papers, and now, here they are. Chicago's own killer dillers, those scintillating sinners: Lucifer Milton and Sam Winchester."_

The lights blinded the boys, but it was nothing different from a publicized trial. Instead, they grinned in their long, black pea coats, looking more like gangsters than vaudeville performers, and turned around to face the crowd and they sang.

They walked down the stairs, singing about how great it was nowadays. About the jazz and liquor and the cheating and all the sins that got them where they were. They faced away again, popped the buttons on their coats, and let it slide off their shoulders. The effect of women in fur coats might be different – the ladies of vaudeville could show more skin – but their suits were pressed and the pinstripes stood out like sequins or lines of glitter.

They tossed the coats to the side and started on the dance.

Sam taught Lucifer a few tap moves, but in complete honesty, nobody in the crowd paid to see the show. They would up it week after week – make it new and fresh for when the original kick ran out – but right now, they had a body count of four and they played it up. It started with guns made with their fingers, aiming them at the crowd or ceiling.

When they went off stage and brought out mock Tommy guns, the crowd laugh – they thought homicide was cute on the men, especially the innocent looks Lucifer could give – and they used their new props imagining Crowley out there, shaking his head. But he would be grinning, because this was Chicago. And murder was a form of entertainment.

In the end, they turned and faced the wall of lights behind them. Snare hits fired through the theatre, sounding like machine gun fire, and the lights sparked and burned out, revealing only their names. They imagined Zachariah would be in the crowd too, wishing he had something more to do with setting this up because the way the crowd was going wild this was going to be a hit show. He could have made a ton of money on that.

The boys blew on the nozzle of their guns, and the lights went out.

Nobody saw the way Sam Winchester linked his arm through Lucifer's and pulled him off the stage. When the lights went on and they were supposed to take their bows, the stage was empty, the fake guns abandoned on the floor. The crowd went nuts, but the men didn't hear it. By the time the lights were back on onstage, Sam had already shoved Lucifer into their dressing room and slammed and locked the door.

"Bed or couch?" Lucifer asked as he stumbled, but by the time he turned and righted himself, Sam was towering over him, capturing his lips in a ferocious kiss. And they'd waited too long for this. Their hands were at each other's belts, both refusing to break contact to make the undress go faster. Sam won the battle, popping the buttons of Lucifer's fly open and shoving the material down his thighs. They were still walking into the room, and the pants restricted his movement and caused Lucifer to trip. Sam gripped his hips, trying to keep him upright, but luckily they crashed mostly on the couch. With a grin, Sam yanked off Lucifer's shoes and socks, tugging the pants down his legs until they were gone. Sam kicked off his own shoes before he brought their lips together, rocking his hips forward. Lucifer shifted, letting his legs fall open and wrap around Sam's thighs, before dragging him back down again.

The room buzzed with silence, the only break came from their quick breaths. Lucifer rocked up into the grind, his fingers working on Sam's suit jacket first, then the vest. It took a full minute, but Sam felt his victory when the blond boy's cold fingers found his bare stomach. The dress shirt was untucked from the pants, and Lucifer started unbuttoning that as well. Sam shifted, arching his back so he could kiss Lucifer's neck. The other man let forth a string of curse words, occasionally damning Sam but more frequently damning modern fashion trends and the excessive amount of layers he had to remove.

Sam laughed and sat up. Lucifer adjusted his hips with him, nearly crawling onto the larger man's lap to continue the grinding. With everything unbuttoned, Lucifer was able to push the material off of Sam's shoulders and expose the torso.

He didn't wait.

Bites and kisses were placed on his shoulder and collarbone, but he couldn't move lower. Sam's hands were on him, trying to remove the three barriers between his hands and Lucifer's skin.

It seemed like it took forever to get naked, but when they finally got there, things slowed momentarily. Fingers danced over patches of skin, mouths murmured praises and promises. They had seen each other naked before – it had taken months to get the act prepared and lined up – and they shared an apartment two blocks away where if they made too much noise, nobody asked questions.

But tonight was special. It was a year in the making.

Because for a year now, they had slowly been learning to live with the knowledge that each of them had killed two people. Some nights it was easier, and some nights were hard. They both had baggage they were still working through. The murders didn't bother Lucifer too much, but he still struggled with what he did when he first got into the city. They weighed heavily on Sam. He and Dean… Lucifer never asked and Sam never really told, but every once and a while, Sam would submit. He'd get on his knees and give Lucifer all he was worth. He was still learning that sex wasn't just a way to keep another man happy, to keep him from drinking and hitting.

And despite the fact that the murders didn't bother Lucifer, he liked to push Sam a little too hard sometimes. Even though Sam never asked and Lucifer never really told, every once and a while, Lucifer would beg him to take him harder – he was a grown man, he could handle it rough – and Sam would kiss him to remind him that this wasn't just a trick in an ally down by the Platinum Lounge. That he wasn't going to give him money and leave. They were stuck together.

He was still learning that sex could come from a place of love and affection.

It took a while and a lot of practice for him to accept that sometimes Sam liked it gentle. But it didn't take Lucifer any longer to learn that than it took Sam to realize that sex could be fun and not just another way to submit and please another man.

Well, okay, maybe it didn't take Sam that long to realize sex could be fun. But it took him longer than that to finally quit whimpering apologies to his dead brother while he slept, so Lucifer figured they were about even.

Needless to say, they learned a lot from each other. But they still had a long way to go.

"How should we do it, tonight?" Lucifer breathed, fingers dancing over the taller man's ribs, grinning at the way Sam would flinch if Lucifer got too close to his sides. He was ticklish there.

"Both," Sam's large hands found Lucifer's shoulders and he pushed the man back, getting a look at him. Puffy lips, clear eyes, and his necking hair. Lucifer looked confused in his lust, like he couldn't imagine it both ways, and maybe he couldn't. Maybe they couldn't mix Sam's affection and Lucifer's desire for it rough in one go, but that didn't mean they couldn't try. "Me first." Sam declared, rocking back enough to let his long legs escape from under him to stretch out down the couch.

Lucifer frowned, still confused, but he adjusted himself from sitting on the man's thighs to sitting between them. Sam gave a little nod, and Lucifer licked his lips and lead with his hand. His mouth pushed down after, and Sam was never quiet – not really – and he let out an almighty groan at the contact. It only lasted a few moments because Lucifer remembered that Sam wanted it both ways, and he adjusted himself to kiss the man's thighs and hip bones. The groans turned to softer sounds, and in record time, Sam was pushing oil at him.

They shared a second of eye contact before Lucifer poured some on his fingers and started working.

While it was usually Sam who liked it gentle and loving, Lucifer could see the benefits of it, especially when he wasn't on the receiving end. He loved pushing a finger into his lover and hearing please sounds. He liked how despite the fact that this was supposed to be slow, Sam would start begging for more and more. More than anything, when the taller man deemed himself ready and Lucifer lined himself up, he liked knowing that he could do for Sam what so many faceless men didn't do for him.

He could make it good.

Lucifer liked placing kisses to Sam's neck, sucking just to mix it up, as he slowly pushed in. He liked the way Sam would grip his biceps for support or the back of his neck to guide him into slow, lazy kisses. And he liked the way they moved together, the way their chests felt covered in sweat, and the way Sam's hazel eyes held all the love and trust of a virgin, despite his history.

In fact, Lucifer liked it so much, he was right on the edge and losing control. Maybe Sam had finally changed him, or maybe it was because he had only ever really topped with Sam, but he loved giving it to Sam like this. Maybe more than Sam liked taking it. His lover's eyes were closed and focused, and Lucifer noticed with confusion that Sam's hand wasn't working himself to climax, it was wrapped around the base and squeezing.

"What're you doing?" Lucifer breathed, his body not letting him slow down even though he wanted to. He was too close.

"Keep going," Sam cracked an eye, a grin spreading on his face. "When you're done with me, I'm gonna fuck you so hard you won't be able to sit for a week."

Everything in Lucifer's body tightened and released. It was a hard one, and his shaking fingers clamped at Sam's hips hard enough to leave bruises. When he opened his eyes, Sam was watching him with a startling level of clarity and Lucifer wanted to feel offended – like he wasn't good enough and that's why Sam hadn't gotten off too – but the taller boy licked his lips and ordered, "Hands and knees," and Lucifer would have been happy to obliged, if he hadn't caught a glimpse of them in the mirror.

He stood, grabbing the oil, and walked to the mirror. He could hear his lover shuffling on the couch, snapping about how he didn't say these things to hear himself talk, but he shut up when Lucifer leaned forward on his forearms, steadying himself against the counter in front of their big, lighted mirror.

Sam, that narcissist, loved that fucking mirror.

Lucifer watched the taller man approaching, a hand pressed over his stomach like he was modest or something. His hands left himself when he reached Lucifer though, dropping down to grip his hips. Standing up like this, the mirror cut out at Sam's collarbones, he leaned forward until he could grin in the mirror and Lucifer could see.

Lucifer smiled back.

"You're a monster," Sam grinned, accepting the oil as it was handed back to him. He did pause to place kisses on the man's shoulder blades. Lucifer groaned, dropping his shoulders and folding his arms so he could place his head down over them. "You okay?"

"Mmhmm," Lucifer said into his arms, pushing back against him as further proof. And Sam knew he wasn't lying, so he coated his fingers in oil and set to work. Despite being already spent, the blond man was still vocal about intrusion. He hummed when he was ready for another, and it was weird for Sam to go on with this knowing Lucifer wasn't getting something immediate out of it. But maybe he wasn't getting nothing out of it because when Sam glanced to the mirror, Lucifer hand his arm pressed flat against it, using the surface to push back against Sam, his other hand bracing himself against the counter for further leverage, his eyes shut, but his bottom lips caught between his teeth.

"Ready?" Sam asked, and Lucifer's eyes snapped open.

"If you really wanted it rough, you wouldn't ask, you'd just… _oh_, God," Lucifer's forehead met the counter when Sam pushed in all the way in one thrust. For a split second he thought he hurt his lover, but he was already pushing back, and as long as he wasn't actually hurt, rough was okay.

Sam gripped Lucifer's hips and set a much quicker starting pace than Lucifer had with him.

Before Lucifer, Sam had never entered another man. He was younger, subservient, and made to please his brother. All he had known of men was how do adore his partner, but this – at times – was better. He liked the wrecked moans escaping Lucifer, the sound of skin slapping against skin, and knowing that Lucifer trusted him enough to let him be this rough with him.

A hand slid up from Lucifer's hip to his shoulder, and Sam pulled, helping Lucifer force himself back and meet his thrusts.

Sam liked taking control. He liked thinking that they were just animals, so completely driven by lust that they could fuck like dogs in the street, where there was no need for waiting out and making it last. It was all about getting there quick. But Sam didn't like to think of himself as the johns who used his lover before him, so despite the awkward angle and cries of _more_ and _faster_ and _harder_, Sam liked using his extra height to lean over Lucifer and kiss his back. His shoulder blades were sensitive, and even though he couldn't go again right yet, when he looked up from the small display of affection, he appreciated the way Lucifer met his gaze in the mirror with a soft smile.

Until he brushed up against that bundle of nerves inside Lucifer, and the man nearly collapsed. It wasn't necessarily pain or pleasure, but the overstimulation made the blond's heart beat in his chest like he was about to die.

Lucifer walked his hands up the glass until he was standing as close to upright as he could. He tossed his head back over his shoulder and twisted his arm behind him to reach for Sam's neck. The taller boy leaned in, pressing his lips against Lucifer's despite their awkward angle and two more thrusts and Sam wrapped his arm around Lucifer's waist to hold their bodies against each other and buried himself deep, groaning out his release against his lover's mouth.

They stayed like that for a moment, before Lucifer untwisted himself and placed both hands on the counter for support. When Sam pulled back, the shorter man was trembling, but hard again. Impressed, Sam reached for it but Lucifer shook his head and knocked Sam's hand away. "Too sensitive. It hurts. It'll go away." When Lucifer looked up at Sam, his eyes seemed impossibly wide and blue, and the taller boy just nodded.

They walked together to the bed pushed into the corner of the room. They didn't even ask for a bed to be set up in here – the company was used to male stars and blushing chorus girls – and they weren't exactly going to correct them.

It wasn't their bed at home, but it would work just fine for one night.

Some nights they fought about how they would cuddle – both men liked projecting their dominance by being the big spoon while adoring the comfort and safety of being the little spoon – but Sam laid on his back, and Lucifer laid in the crook of his arm, resting his head on Sam's chest and wrapping an arm over the man's torso.

They didn't need words. With their pasts, what could words do anyway? They knew how nothing else mattered – that they had killed their wives or spent months in jail or just had a successful show; they didn't even wonder what would happen in the future – because as they laid naked together in bed, coming down from their sex high, for a moment their hearts beat as one.

And they fell asleep, easy, in each other's arms.


End file.
